Uncle Vampire (6 page)

“Wake up!” he says. “Wake up! You're dreaming!”

But how can I be sure?

7

Honey and I were learning to drive. She was at the steering wheel and I was in the backseat, keeping my mouth shut. She's not the world's best driver. She jerks the steering wheel this way, that way, then slams on the brakes at the stop sign:
Errrrrrrr
!

Mr. Robinson, who also teaches math, told her she was doing fine. He likes Honey. She twinkles and dimples and laughs at his jokes, and doesn't say a word when he pats her knee.

Hey, it's her knee, not mine.

“Turn left at the corner,” Mr. Robinson said.

Honey tapped the brake. We st-st-st-stopped at the signal light.

“You don't have to brake so soon,” he said.

“I'm sorry,” Honey said. “I'm so excited.”

She could hardly sit still. She was practically twitching. I'm a big girl now! I'm learning to drive! I could see her reflection in the rearview mirror, her face wildly happy, her eyes shining. She steered that car as if it were her life and she was finally in control.

Honey doesn't know that she's circling a track that will take her back to where she started.

“Yield,” Robinson said. “The sign said ‘yield.'”

Honey yielded and merged and zipped down the road, waving to friends (“Keep your hands on the wheel!”), humming like a little blond engine.

I cringed in the backseat. Cars and trucks were all around us. A foot or two closer and we'd be squashed. Let Honey drive. I don't want to take my turn. I know I should learn; it would free me.

If I knew how to drive, I could leave this town. A memory stirs in its sleep. We ran away. We were small. It was dark. We were wearing pajamas and slippers. Maggie buttoned up our coats and put scarves on our heads. It was cold. It was winter.

Someone was shouting in the living room. Papa? Arguing with Mama? With Uncle Toddy?

“Come on,” Maggie said. We slipped out the front door. Nobody noticed; they were too busy yelling.

We hurried down the sidewalk, under huge, heavy trees, their branches thrashing in the wind. It felt so odd to be out at night—like Halloween, without the candy.

“Hold hands,” Maggie said. We all held hands.

Richie started crying. “The police will get us.”

“Don't be a baby,” Maggie said. “Hurry up.”

She was taking us to Grammy's house. Grammy would know what to do. She would make them stop yelling.

Then we came to the end of the block, where the avenue broadens, at the intersection. I looked up at Maggie's face, so strong and brave, shining in the streetlight. Then her mouth twisted.

“We can't cross the street,” she announced flatly. “Not till we're older. They said so.”

We didn't argue, of course, because Maggie was the boss. There was no place to go, so we went back. We had to ring the doorbell. They were surprised to see us. Mama and Papa and Uncle Toddy got mad at us; especially at Maggie, because she was the oldest and should've known better.

That memory appeared like a photograph as Honey drove through that same intersection.

“You're doing fine,” Robinson said. He sneaks looks at her legs when he thinks she won't notice. It makes her nervous, so she pretends to be unconscious, one of her specialties. She's wearing a miniskirt. Her legs are long and curvy. She'd deny it, but she likes people to notice her body.

It was my turn to drive. “You're doing great,” Robinson told me.

“I like to drive.” That would please Honey. I've been trying not to rock her boat. “It's weird, when you think how close the other cars are.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, we could get killed any second.”

“Not that we will,” Honey added.

“Don't think about that,” Robinson said. “Just watch the road.”

As we walked home, Honey was practically skipping.

“That was fun,” she said. “I can't wait to drive.”

“Drive what?”

“Mama's car, I guess.”

“Uncle Toddy's always got it, since his truck broke down. Why doesn't he get it fixed?”

“He doesn't have any money.”

“Why not? He's got a job.”

“Do you think Papa will pay for our insurance?”

“I doubt it. In case you haven't noticed, his business is going down the drain.”

“No, it's not,” Honey said. “The insurance won't cost much. You get a discount if your grades are good.”

“They're not. Remember?”

“They will be.” Honey kicked brown leaves along the sidewalk.

I dropped the subject. I didn't want to spoil her mood. Things are going pretty smoothly. Tonight she's going to the homecoming dance with our school's star quarterback, Curtis Bradley. Or is it Bradley Curtis? I can never remember.

Uncle Toddy had a snack of cheese and crackers waiting for Honey. She'll have dinner in a restaurant before the dance.

“I'm not hungry, Uncle Toddy.”

He pouted. She ate.

She's happy tonight. She's in love with Curtis Bradley. Our team won the homecoming game. Wahoo. She's sailing up into the sky like a pink balloon, her hope carrying her high above the ground. It scares me.

She stood before the mirror, piling up her hair, then letting it splash, thick and golden, down her back. She wants to look perfect for Curtis Bradley. Bradley Curtis. Whatever.

He's not your average jock. He's intelligent and kind. He's nice to people who aren't even popular. Even Janis Simms, the official school fat girl. There must always be a fat girl for everyone to torture.

Someday Janis Simms will return for our class reunion, a beautiful woman, in a size six dress, carrying an Oscar. Or a machine gun, perhaps.

I can't stay on track. I was talking about Bradley. Or Curtis. Maybe there're two of him, like us. We could double-date. Honey wouldn't like that. She prefers to keep her friends and my friends separate.

Trying to be objective, I watched Honey dress, thinking: Who is that girl? What would a stranger see?

She could be a model. A magazine cover girl. The all-American fashion doll: blue eyes, red lips, blond hair. She hates her nose; she thinks it spoils her looks. She covered it with her hand and stared into the mirror.

I said, “You could walk around like that all night.” She stuck out her tongue at me.

She looks shorter than I do, by an inch or two. Honey projects petiteness. Her gown is made of dark blue velvet. It's a simple dress, sweeping to the floor, baring her shoulders and back. And front.

I said: “You'll fall out of that dress.” I would never wear a strapless, my breasts served up. Please help yourself.

“All the girls are wearing them. Even Nancy,” Honey said. She's double-dating with Nancy and Bobby Sloane.

Honey's not sorry that I won't be attending. She's glad that I'm staying home. She says I'm too critical.

“You look beautiful,” I said when she was finally ready.

She made an awful face in the mirror. Honey craves compliments but fears they're a trick. If she said, “Gee, thanks,” you might scream, “Just kidding!”

She has no idea why people think she's pretty.

Curtis Bradley arrived, shockingly handsome in his tux. If he and Honey get married someday, they will have the world's most gorgeous children.

He had an orchid for Honey. She wore it in her hair; there wasn't room on the front of her dress. Bradley talked to Papa. Uncle Toddy took pictures. Richie went out, letting the front door bang. Before he left, he kissed my cheek.

There's something important that I'm trying to remember. I can't hold my mind in place. It keeps slipping away. What was I saying? What is it that I mustn't forget? I remember that I must remember something, but it scuttles out of sight when I turn my head, darting into darkness, like mice. There are so many places to hide in this house, so many holes and crevices. I've told Papa about the mice. We could get a cat. But Mama says cats are dirty. Uncle Toddy put out poison.

I'm supposed to be working on a paper for English. It's due very soon. Or was it due last week? Once things start unraveling, it's hard to stop them, like that sweater I had; I pulled one loose loop and it all came undone, a pile of yarn. So it's important to fix things when they first go wrong. Before they have a chance to completely break down.

That is what I'm trying to remember. That is what I must not forget. I have got to pay attention. I keep writing things down here. So I won't let myself forget to remember. And if I die, someone will know what happened.

“Oh, please!” Honey would say. “Must we be so dramatic?” She'd think it was a joke. Or tear this up. She'd say: “Don't put your craziness in writing. You might as well hold up a sign that says:
I'm nuts
!”

Honey doesn't know about this journal.

I can picture her at the homecoming dance. Oh, she is having such a fabulous time, surrounded by her friends. They're talking and laughing, and Bradley has his arm around her waist; not tight. Just right. The band is playing her favorite songs, as if the musicians were reading her mind.

The cafeteria is so dark you can't see where you are; it's an elegant ballroom, in a castle in France. And wouldn't you know it! Curtis and Honey are chosen as the king and queen of the homecoming dance!

They're up on the stage wearing golden crowns, and Honey is holding an armful of roses. It's so perfect, you know, because they're the perfect couple; she's the prettiest cheerleader, and he's the handsomest quarterback, and the football team has won every game!

The crowd applauds and roars its approval. Honey stands in the warmth of the spotlight, smiling and waving, smiling and waving.

8

I liked Thanksgiving when Maggie was around. When we were little we drew turkeys and pilgrims. She'd let me use her big box of crayons. Their points were always crisp, like her.

She called to wish us a happy Thanksgiving.

I took the call on the phone in the kitchen. I could hear people laughing and talking in the background.

“Carrie, how are you?”

“Fine. How are you?”

“Great! Will you get that thing away from me? They're torturing me with a frozen turkey! You guys know I'm a vegetarian! Now it's flying around the room.” She was talking to her friends and roommates. When had Maggie become a vegetarian?

Uncle Toddy took the phone. “How's it going, kiddo? Had any snow yet?” After him, Mama took the call on the phone in her bedroom.

We had company coming in the afternoon, Papa's sister Marion and her family. They live a few hours away. We hardly ever see them. Papa and Aunt Marion don't like each other, so they get together only on special occasions. Which seems odd, since they wouldn't take each other out for lunch.

There was a lot to do before the guests arrived. Papa built a big fire in the living room. Then he started vacuuming. Richie raked leaves in the front yard. It was cold, but he wouldn't wear a jacket.

He pushed the leaves into a pile and tried to burn them. Papa rapped on the window and shook his head. “No!” he kept shouting. “They won't burn! They're too wet!” Richie pretended not to hear him. He doused the leaves with lighter fluid and got them going, but they smoldered. Thick gray smoke rolled toward the house.

“See? What did I tell you!” Papa shouted, vindicated.

Mama was in the kitchen, whipping cream to top the pumpkin pies she'd bought at the supermarket. She'd washed her hair. It was curly and wet. She used to be beautiful. I've seen her pictures. She looked a lot like Honey.

Now there's a jagged line between her eyebrows that looks like a tiny lightning bolt. Her hair has gone dark and ordinary. But she's not fat like a lot of parents. She could look really good if she tried.

“You look nice, Mama. I like that dress.” It was a soft knit, the color of raspberry sherbet.

“Thank you, sweetie. Aren't you going to get dressed?”

“I will.” I was wearing the gray sweats I'd slept in. “I want to get some work done first.”

I washed celery and stuffed it with cream cheese. I filled crystal bowls with olives and nuts. Honey helped Uncle Toddy get the turkey ready for the oven, plunging handfuls of stuffing into its hollow belly. She loves it when company comes to the house, because we all make a special effort to act normal.

Mama was in a jolly mood. She hummed while she peeled the squash. Uncle Toddy went upstairs to get dressed. It was a perfect opportunity for me and Mama to talk. We seldom do. Uncle Toddy is always listening. He could be a spy for the FBI. He's probably outside the kitchen right now, waiting to hear what I'm going to tell her.

I could say: “Mama, why don't we ever talk?”

“What do you mean?” she'd reply.

“We never talk.”

“Talk about what?” She'd still be smiling, hoping I was being silly.

“Stuff that matters,” I'd say.

“Stuff like what?” The smile would be fading; she'd get really busy.

“Mama, I have good news and bad news.”

“Don't tell me the bad news,” she'd whisper.

“The bad news is, Uncle Toddy's a vampire. The good news is, I may be imagining it. In which case, I'm completely nuts.”

Mama could feel me getting ready to speak. She moved around the kitchen quickly.

Then she looked directly at me.

“Nothing's wrong, is there, Carolyn?”

“No. I was just thinking.”

“What do you suppose your brother's doing? It smells like he's burning down the neighborhood.”

“I hope so.”

She smiled at me and fled from the kitchen. I pictured Richie loping from house to house, christening each one with lighter fluid; in the name of the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost.

Which reminds me: I'm supposed to write and deliver a Thanksgiving grace. I've done that since I was a little girl.